


What's In A Name?

by westminster



Category: House M.D.
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Pining, all you need to know is that this fanfiction was inspired by shrek, and that fact shames me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 15:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19793767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminster/pseuds/westminster
Summary: What is in a name?That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet― William Shakespeare*Wilson's journals read something like this:Doctor James House, Doctor James Wilson-House, Doctor James House,Doctor James Wilson-House, Doctor James House, Doctor James Wilson-HouseIt's safe to say that he has more than a slight crush on his colleague. But House will never find out, right?





	What's In A Name?

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this partly as a companion piece to my other House/Wilson fanfiction, Everything, but they aren't connected so you can read this as a stand-alone work. I also wrote this partly because I was inspired by that scene in Shrek 2, and if you don't know what scene I'm referring to, consider yourself lucky. But don't let that put you off, I've banned myself from using any Shrek references in here.

"...I'm sorry, James," Cuddy's voice pierces through the silence, "I know this department has done some great work recently, it's just not reflecting in our figures."

"Mmm"

"I hate to restrict your work but budget cuts _are_ budget cuts, and somebody's got to suffer."

"Hm." 

"There's really no other solution to the hospital's problems. We're going to have to replace all of your nurses with hookers." 

"Yep."

Cuddy's deep groan makes Wilson look up, for the first time since she entered. He immediately registers the disappointment in her eyes and sinks back into his chair, listening to the sound of his pen clattering against the desk.

"What was the last thing I said?" Cuddy enquires, her gaze harsh and intense. She shuts the file with a sigh and begins to rub her forehead. She's clearly exhausted, and there's no wonder why - House's whining this week has been on an unprecedented scale, and he knows that Cuddy is always the one that suffers most. All Wilson can do is stare back blankly, crimson shame sneaking across his face. He debates admitting that the last thing he heard her say was hello, but before he can make a decision Cuddy stands up, defeated.

Instead of walking towards the door, she moves closer to Wilson, and the tone of her voice tilts to one of curiosity: "What _are_ you scribbling anyway? What was so important that you completely disregarded everything I said? Is it something to do with one of your patients?"

She cranes her neck in an attempt to read Wilson's sloppy handwriting; he shuts the book so fast that he traps his fingers in it. Wilson curses under his breath and thrusts the book away from him.

"No-no, it's not that," he begins, but the words come out clumsily, tripping over each other as they leave his mouth. He blinks rapidly, clearly flustered, praying for a miracle to happen. It would definitely take a miracle for Cuddy to believe his ramblings. "It's nothing, honestly. Nothing. Absolutely nothing... I just had something on my mind, that's all... just a little distracted. It's nothing, really. Nothing."

A eyebrow is raised at him, and Wilson knows he will burn under that gaze one day.

"Nothing, huh? We could do with some of that around here," She says dismissively, before taking her leave. 

Relief floods Wilson's body as the door closes behind Cuddy. He takes the notebook back, gripping it with a grand fervour as he willed his heart to regain a steady pace. God, what would she say she found out? The notebook opened to the page he'd been so dedicated to moments ago. He looked down at his creation in shame, the cursive swirls of the lettering imbuing a sense of nausea in him.

_James Wilson <3 Gregory House,_ one line read in bright pink, like something from his favourite film, _Legally Blonde._

_Dr. James House_ , said the next, in a cartoon-ish explosive bubble.

Then there was a litter of _Dr. James Wilson-House_ , written alongside each other like train carts. These were written in a dark red, carved so deep into the page that they had torn through the paper.

A host of humiliating symbols dance around these markings, the numerous pretty hearts and flowers and jewels cementing Wilson's embarrassing hobby. He doesn't remember exactly how it started, doesn't even remember the first time he realised his love for House ventured into more than the platonic. His mind can, though, conjure up images of shredded documents with hastily scribbled desires, and the languid, lovelorn gazes at his colleague that had inspired them. Wilson had even broke up with the pretty little secretary he'd been seeing: he couldn't kiss her without thinking about how different House would feel, how his beard would tickle the corners of Wilson's mouth instead of leaving him with the taste of cheap lip gloss. It drove him crazy: the lewd jokes House made about the two, the intimate nature of House's actions and the familiarity with which he went about them. The soft touches at the base of Wilson's spine to move him along, the way House would look up at him under hooded lashes when he wanted something from him. 

"Nothing," Wilson whispers once more now that he's alone. The actions that fuelled him so desperately meant nothing to House. Wilson had resigned himself to the fact that they never would, trapping himself in a cycle of torment and anguish. His musings were a testament to this, already having filled half a pad with his silly impulses, yearnings that would be left unsatisfied. His desires plague him with misery, condemning himself to a life longing for his best friend. Wilson reached for the bourbon he keeps in his cabinet for emergencies only, and pours himself a glass for the third time this week. He glances up at his calendar - only Tuesday. The alcohol is swallowed in one mouthful. 

**

The discovery is inevitable. It was always going to be, House being House after all. Perhaps that's why Wilson did it. Perhaps that's why every night he placed his diary in the very top draw, alongside other important files, unlocked, refusing to face the implications of his actions. Maybe he was just too confident for his own good. Mostly though, Wilson didn't think about it. He knows he wouldn't have liked the answers he'd find.

House, however, very much likes what he finds. He's trying to fake some patient records, looking for files of Wilson's that he can blatantly plagiarise. Banal, really. For House, at least. He's completely uninterested by the notebook, flinging it across the office as his hands delve into the draw to receive the sacred goods he's been coveting. Victory, House thinks, kicking his feet onto Wilson's desk and reclining in his chair as he analyses his treasures. 

He hasn't even made it through the first file when the door handle moves, alerting him to Wilson's return. A lot sooner than expected, but nothing House can't wriggle himself out of. He poses mock-seductively in the chair, trying to make the word "hello" as flirtatious as he can, to distract from the confidential bounty he's procured. Wilson stares at House, before noticing the askew notebook out of the corner of his eye. He can't help but sneak a quick glance at it, as dread begins to creep up his spine. Quick, but not quick enough. House jumps up as Wilson makes a dash for the book, flinging himself at Wilson. Wilson pins the notebook close to his chest as House rugby tackles him to the ground, jostling like schoolchildren. Even with House's leg, Wilson is an easy opponent, no match against the man who's spent his whole life getting into fights in alleys behind seedy bars. One of the many perks of being an asshole, he likes to think. He pins Wilson down, straddling the other man, so close that he can feel Wilson's breath on his face. They're mere centimetres away from each other now, and House can see the beads of sweat that have begun to clump around Wilson hair and he fights back an unknown urge to sweep it out of his face. He can feel Wilson's heavy breaths against his own stomach, and suddenly realises what he's doing, ripping the book from Wilson's hands. 

"What have we here?" He taunts, swatting away Wilson's attempts to grab it back, "love letters to that naive little woman you're dating, I suppose."

Wilson lets his grasp on House slip, relieving the tension in his body and letting himself rest, limp against the cold floor. He's resigned himself to this fate, ready to let the humiliation wash over him like a tidal wave. 

House's thighs are still pressing against his sides, and Wilson takes some relief in the fact that House won't be able to keep this position long. His colleague flicks open the book with such prowess that Wilson can't help but stifle a laugh, House has no idea what he's in for. Even a brain as big as his couldn't have factored in the reality, and Wilson found it strangely poetic. 

Houses' eyes flick through the page after page, eyes darting between the lines. The silence is louder than anything he could have said, and Wilson thinks he might throw up if House doesn't shift his weight soon. He has to lie there, eyes squeezed closed, willing the panic to subside, until House has analysed every single page. Wilson forces himself to pry his eyes open when he hears the notebook shut, watching House wave it in front of his face. They both stare at each other for an insanely long amount of time, lips tightened and eyebrows furrowed, like they're in some shitty western. 

It's House who finally breaks the tension, of course. Wilson's brain had completely shut down a while ago.

"James Wilson-House? Really? I can't believe you let your ego get in the way of seeing that James House-Wilson is clearly the superior choice."

Wilson is so shocked by that statement that he can't even muster up the strength to feel apprehensive.

"Are you fucking joking?" and wow, Wilson wasn't expected that to come out of his own mouth.

"Are you laughing?" House hits back, raising an eyebrow and sticking his bottom lip out.

"I'm sorry, I've known you for what? Way over a decade now? And you've just realised that this lifelong friend of yours has been harbouring a ridiculous crush on you, trying to get rid of his unrequited desires like a stupid fucking teenager -- and the first thing you find fault with is the surname I gave myself in my ugly little fantasies?"

House's eyes soften, an almost doleful smile on his face and oh- Wilson's heart can't help but flutter at that. It's such a distinct change in House's mood that it takes Wilson aback, though he finds that his mind is that jumbled that he can't process the meaning of it. All Wilson knows right now is that this is a side of House he's never seen before. The hints of vulnerability that begin to creep into House's eyes make Wilson _melt._

"Not the first thing I found fault with," House whispers, leaning forwards towards Wilson, placing his hands beside the other man's head, effectively trapping him. "The _only_ thing."

Wilson then becomes very aware of the proximity between the two men and House's words take his breath away. He's lying flat on the floor but he still thinks he might faint, and grips onto House's shirt to steady himself in a dream-like haze. Yes, that's it, he thinks, a dream, this is what this must be. A temporary illusion brought on by too much work and not enough sleep. The hope that was currently spreading through his body like wildfire would die as soon as he woke.

But suddenly there was a warm mouth against his, House's lips catching Wilson's, gentle and slow and tender and all that Wilson's ever dreamed of. God, he was right; right about how the hairs on House's chin would feel. Yes, right and also delighted to be wrong about how House would kiss him: this wasn't the harsh, quick fuck he'd thought House might engage in, this wasn't the biting and clawing he'd been certain House would want. This was romantic, House's touch was light, knuckles ghosting against Wilson's cheek. It was all Wilson had ever wanted, all the stuff he'd locked away, certain House would never want back. It was too real to be a dream, he could never imagine something like this with such clarity - the wetness of House's tongue as it sneaked into mouth, tracing his gums, the hand threading through the locks of his hair. House breaks off the kiss with a groan of discomfort and Wilson freezes for a second, certain he's the problem. However, he relaxes a little when he catches House rubbing his leg.

They separate, standing up, increasing the distance between the two and it makes Wilson realise how empty he feels without that soft, fuzzy weight pressing against his. He lasts about five seconds, not even that possibly, before his restraint crumbles, practically diving onto House. Wilson's retained enough common sense to move the files and containers that clutter the desk carefully onto the floor, rather than sweeping them to the ground before he moves House onto the desk. This display earns a chuckle from House, but Wilson quickly silences him. He's amazed by how perfect this feels, surprised that they've not been doing this every day of their lives. It's familiar yet unnerving, like one their arguments. Wilson thinks his hands must've been crafted to meld flawlessly with the undulating curves of House's spine. _Fate_ , his mind hums as he tries to claw back some semblance of sanity, _Destiny. This was written in the stars._

Things start to get a little dizzy after that, and this time it's Wilson who breaks the kiss off, breathing deep into House's neck, starved of oxygen. 

"So, James House-Wilson it is then?" House murmurs, almost absentmindedly.

Wilson can't help but look up at him, a big, stupid grin on his face. There'd be lots of time to argue over that. Years. That he was certain of.

**Author's Note:**

> send me prompts/contact me on tumblr: @mandelsons


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